


3:18 pm in los santos, san andreas

by allonsysouffle



Series: your city is ignited; [2]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Fake AH Crew, Female Jack, Gen, Immortality, Immortals AU, very-vaguely-hinted-at raychael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 21:45:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4115979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsysouffle/pseuds/allonsysouffle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this is how the fake ah crew begins:<br/>on a tuesday afternoon, when all of them lie dead and waiting.<br/>it begins with two bangs, two crashes and a stab wound to the chest, via a craigslist ad, a text, a phone call and a gang war.<br/>(of course there's a gang war. It wouldn't be los santos otherwise.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	3:18 pm in los santos, san andreas

It’s 3:18 pm in Los Santos, San Andreas, and six criminals are supposed to be dead. 

Rules are there to be broken.

 

* * *

 

There’s a gun to a head in Los Santos.

Now, keep in mind, this is quite a regular occurrence. City like that, with the crime rate the way it is- not a day goes by without somebody’s brains blowing out. It’s normal.

The problem is, it’s Ray’s gun. The pistol, the tiny hot pink one, all oiled up and polished and painted to perfection- but he’s a sniper. A gun for hire. He works rooftops. He’s got no real reason to even have a pistol like that, but Ray... he’s not one to ever be unprepared.

The problem is, it’s Ray’s gun.

In Ray’s hand.

To Ray’s head.

_That’s_ not so normal.

Well.. it’s not normal to most people, but to Ray it’s pretty much his average Tuesday afternoon. 

He’s in his bedroom, and he knows these feelings all too well. The ones when he’s shaking and breaking and his eyes are so bloodshot he can’t tell the difference between tears and sweat- they’re his normal. He has been here, in this very moment, so many times before, but this time it just feels so real and terrible and his careful trigger finger is just itching for it to be over-

He’s not worth a shit. He’s out of jobs, out of money, out of options and all he can feel is overwhelming regret. He is the one who let everyone down. It’s his fault everyone he knows think he’s dead in a ditch, it’s his fault he dropped out of school, it’s his fault that his whole crew is dead and he’s alone and he remembers being left for dead on the floor of an unfamiliar warehouse, surrounded by...

The metal is so cold under slick, calloused palms, and his pointer falls to brush over the trigger, and he inhales, and he inhales, and he-

He doesn’t hear the crack.

When he wakes up, his ears ring.

   


* * *

 

Vinewood’s nice, this time of year, all sunshine and blue skies, and all Michael wants to do is enjoy it.

Too bad he’s bleeding out on the fucking pavement. 

Just his luck, he supposes. Demolitions. He’s into _demolitions_ , and he gets taken out by a fucking _minivan_ , holy shit, _this is bullshit, what a fucking way to go out._

He never saw the car, anyway. He was just listening to his goddamn music, trying to find his way through the twisted maze of suburban houses and gardens because all he wanted to do was find the shitty rookie crew that hired him. He was just crossing the road like a regular human being, and lo and be-fucking-hold, his face is in the asphalt and his ears are ringing from the sound of screeching tires and fuck, everything hurts like hell and _fuck, everything is red-_

He’s dying, and he knows it. 

And then... 

He’s not.

And then, he’s standing on the sidewalk like he was not a minute ago, earbuds still blasting EDM. His brain tells him he’s alive but his heart is pounding harder than it ever has and he’s breathing like he’s just run a marathon, and all of his bones feel like they’ve splintered-

He recoils when he realizes that his bones are fine. His body is fine. Everything is perfect, and he needs to get to a bar, fast. 

Scratch that. He just needs to get to the nearest alcohol.

A car drives by, and Michael knows the sound of its tires almost intimately.

 

* * *

 

Gavin’s stupid, and that’s a fact. No one has ever, or will ever, dispute it. Stupid, and reckless. He’s just always been that way. 

It comes at literally no surprise at all how he dies. 

Well, he assumes he died. He’s not so sure, judging by the fact that- even though he swears he remembers a car, and a cliff, and being _in_ that car and driving _off_ that cliff- he’s still alive. Alive, and not injured or anything, imitation sunglasses still balanced and perfect on his nose, not even at the bottom of the chasm. It’s almost like a... respawn. 

That can’t be right, though he definitely remembers it- dying, at least. It was a rush of air and a scream being sucked from his throat and a fleeting, beautiful moment of something very much like freedom, and then...

He wakes up carless at the top of the hill, watching his only real possession burn below him.

Bloody ridiculous.

Then again, his life’s always been bloody ridiculous. Rich british boy gets cut off from his parents and decides to become a pickpocket-slash-awful mercenary-slash-bank robber in the sleaziest city in America? Not exactly the poster boy for ‘normal’. 

So, what’s one slightly-irrational near-death experience, right?

He chalks it up to a fluke and tries his very best to forget it and move on- his best really isn’t very good, but who’s counting at this point?

He’s not.

(He is.)

 

* * *

 

Ryan’s had it coming for a very long time, and he’s fine with it.

He’s been too lucky, really, had too many close scrapes, on too many hit lists. Death’s got it out for him at this point. No one knows how he’s survived this long- not even him.

So he sort of welcomes the feeling of the hitman’s knife digging into his stomach with open arms. His pain tolerance is fucked up anyways. It’s no big deal, honestly.

There’s nothing left for him. 

He’s lived. Oh, how he has lived. He’s gone from good Georgian Christian boy to high school dropout to cocaine dealer to Russian gang member to Moscow’s most wanted to convict to escapee back to gang member to mercenary to Los Santos’ world-infamous Vagabond. All those lives tend to leave a man empty.

He used to be so great. In those old gangs, back in eastern Europe, all that Soviet weaponry, with nothing to lose. Actually, he’s never had anything to lose, but at least Europe was pretty. And so were its guns.

The hitman leaves, wiping the blood off his blade with Ryan’s jacket. He sighs. He loved that jacket.

Retiring would have been nice, now that he thinks about it, bleeding to death on the floor of one of his hideouts. Florida. He would have loved to have gone to Florida. Seaworld, maybe. Free a whale or two. 

Too late now, he supposes. That’s fine. He drops his head onto the concrete and waits for it all to end. 

And waits.

And waits.

He notices that an hour’s gone by and his pulse is still steady and _he’s still alive-_ and he groans.

Who’s going to clean up all that blood now?

 

* * *

Jack’s not into supernatural stuff. 

She doesn’t believe any of it. If she hasn’t seen it with her own eyes, there’s no way it’s real. That’s just how her brain works, how it’s always worked.

But she is still seeing things clear as day barely a minute after she’s been killed. She sees the dirty ground under her, she sees her loud Hawaiian-print shirt, she sees the afternoon sky painted in turquoise and white above her-

Her thoughts don’t match up. Her neurons just aren’t firing. They can’t be. How else would the world make any sense at all? How has this just happened?

It can’t be real, of course. No goddamn way is she alive. 

Or, contrarily, no goddamn way did she die.

She remembers it too vividly for it to have been a dream, though. The risky job, the shady employer, the search for intel, the name-filled envelope, the sniper all in black on the roof of the apartment building at the end of the street-

The bullet in her forehead.

But she wakes up. She wakes up crumbled and shaking in an alleyway, wide-eyed and breathing heavily, clean and spotless and _seeing_. So, of course it’s real. how can it not be?

There is absolutely no denying that Jack has just come back from the dead.

Seeing is believing, after all.

 

* * *

Geoff’s been like this for about thirty years now- immortal, that is- and it’s fucking incredible. Nothing matters to him anymore. He can do anything- no. Everything.

Slips on ice and breaks his neck? Whoops. Shoots himself in the throat while cleaning the barrel of his rifle? Oh, well. Goes out in a goddamn beautiful blaze of glory while taking on an entire crew for encroaching on his territory?

Whatever.

It all started in the eighties. Leukemia. He was fourteen. The world went black, the heart monitor fell silent and then-

Well, you know how the story goes. 

So, of course, he dropped out of school and took up crime. What else was he supposed to devote his life to? God? Good deeds? He’d rather be swimming in cash and hookers. And that’s exactly what he does. 

He’s a god, now.

He’s got everything in the world. Eternal life. Eternal cash. Eternal fucking happiness. He’s been building his empire for about thirty years.

He’s the king of Los Santos, baby.

Now all he needs is a crew.

 

* * *

 

It’s 3:18 pm in Los Santos, San Andreas, and the dead walk among the living. And the dead find each other through the crowds. 

And the dead sing their songs.

 

* * *

 

Two days after he dies, Michael posts an ad on craigslist because _what the hell else is he supposed to do, for fuck’s sake, he just died_ \- and it goes a little something like this.

 

**los santos > vinewood area > personals > rants and raves**

**IMMORTALITY? (PLEASE HELP)**

this is going to sound fucking weird, but i think i might be immortal. or possibly a zombie.

some guy ran over me with his car a couple of days ago and i swear to god i died (white light and tunnel and everything) but then i was just... alive again. i am not shitting you.

is there anyone else out there who’s had an experience like this? 

please say im not crazy. 

_do NOT contact me with unsolicited services or offers_

 

He gets three replies in the next four hours. One is a guy telling him to check himself into a mental hospital. The next is a girl (or probably a robot) trying to sell some sort of weird sex toy.

The last is much more helpful.

 

**to:** [ michaelvj@gmail.com ](mailto:michaelvj@gmail.com)

**from:** [ glazerr@hotmail.com ](mailto:glazerr@hotmail.com)

Hey, dude.

I know exactly what you’re talking about. I’ve been like this for about thirty years now. Not sure how many times I’ve personally resurrected, but it seems like you’ve just popped your death cherry. 

Congratulations.

Just letting you know that you’re not crazy. Or maybe we’re both crazy.

Guess that just means you’re not alone.

~ Geoff

 

**to:** [ glazerr@hotmail.com ](mailto:glazerr@hotmail.com)

**from:** [ michaelvj@gmail.com ](mailto:michaelvj@gmail.com)

how reassuring. 

thanks, though. 

-michael

 

**to:** [ michaelvj@gmail.com ](mailto:michaelvj@gmail.com)

**from:** [ glazerr@hotmail.com ](mailto:glazerr@hotmail.com)

You’re welcome. Always here to help out a fellow possible-immortal.

Hey, this is kind of weird and off-topic, but do you by any chance want to join my criminal gang? There’ll be free food. Maybe.

~ Geoff

 

**to:** [ glazerr@hotmail.com ](mailto:glazerr@hotmail.com)

**from:** [ michaelvj@gmail.com ](mailto:michaelvj@gmail.com)

uh, the fuck?

i mean, yeah, i do demolitions, but ...the fuck?

i _said_ no unsolicited services or offers. that was an offer, asshole.

(also, i am a random person on craigslist. how the fuck did you know that i’m a criminal, holy shit.)

(are you ramsey? the kingpin? i guessed by your name. how many immortal geoffs can there be in this city, right?)

(if you are, maybe i’ll think about it.)

(maybe.)

(but seriously, i said no unsolicited offers. you’re already on my bad side.)

-michael

 

**to:** [ michaelvj@gmail.com ](mailto:michaelvj@gmail.com)

**from:** [ glazerr@hotmail.com ](mailto:glazerr@hotmail.com)

You’re smart, kid. Yeah, that’s me. King of Los Santos.

To answer your question, I’m a criminal mastermind, remember? I know all there is to know about you, Michael Jones. I’ve got people.

Also, pretty much everyone in this city is a criminal in some way or another.

Also, I really do need an explosion guy. 

Also, you’ll be loaded for life.

(Side note: I heard about the IB crew. Anyone who can survive _that_ is already on my good side. So, it totally cancels out.)

~ Geoff

 

* * *

Two days after his attempt, Ray is still sort of flipping his shit. Which, of course, means that the phone call is perfect timing. 

Not. 

He swallows, hard, when he recognizes the number. It’s been far too long since he’s last seen it lighting up his phone. Sighing, he swipes, puts the phone to his ear, and braces for Jersey.

“Yo, Narvaez!” 

He sounds the same as ever, all harsh inflections and yawning vowels, throwing words out careless. The words are so perfectly imprinted on Ray’s mind, and he hates it. He doesn’t want to remember how it ended. How those words turned sour.

“Michael Jones. You never call, never text, what’s a poor boy to do?”

“I guess it has been a fuckin’ while.”

“Yeah, since you left me for dead after the raid on the Hellbenders. _Nine months ago._ ”

“Um. Yeah. Sorry about that, dude. Got caught up in some shit.”

“Oh, I know. Freelancing for crews, huh?”

“Pay’s good, dude. You do the same goddamn thing, Mr. Snipey. But, hey, speaking of crews...”

“ _No_. I know where you’re going with this, and I’m not joining another crew with you. Not after what happened to the IB.”

“Oh, come on, Ray. You cut me deep. I haven’t even fucking told you anything.”

“Fine. _Fuck_. Fine. Hit me with it.”

“So, you know Geoff Ramsey, right?”

“Michael, _no_.”

“..I take that as a yes?”

“Do you have a fucking deathwish?”

“..No?”

“You are _not_ getting me involved with the most dangerous man in all of San Andreas, Jesus Christ- wait, how the fuck are you in with _Geoff Ramsey?_ ”

“It’s a long story.”

“..So you want me to join a gang with the king of Los Santos.. and you?”

“He asked me to find people. I don’t know any better shots than you.”

“How sweet. Fuck off. I can’t do crews anymore, you know that.”

“Yeah, but- it’s _Geoff fucking Ramsey._ At least meet the guy.”

“Fuuuck. Fine. If you get me killed-”

Ray stops, and laughs a little, when he remembers that can’t happen anymore, and how much he wishes it would.

“If you get me killed, I’ll come back to life and kill you back.”

“Ha. You’ll be fine. He’s actually kind of a cool dude. We met on craigslist.”

“HOLY SHIT, MICHAEL JONES, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU.”

 

* * *

 

Two days after she wakes up, Jack is holed up in her hideaway when she gets a text, and now she _knows_ she’s screwed sixteen ways from Sunday. 

Because, of all people, it’s him. The man pulling all the strings, the man with the city at his fingertips, the man she swore to never see again.

Geoff-total-asshole-Ramsey.

**[15:18:07] ramsey:** hey, i’m thinking of getting a crew together. and i’m thinking, you’re good with intelligence. and flying. 

**[15:18:37] ramsey:** so i’m thinking, you should think about it. i know it’s been a while, but it’ll be fun. promise.

Jack wants to kill him. Oh, how she wants to kill him. She’s not joining his shitty crew, she’s not taking any of his shitty offers, she’s not going crying back to his service-

**[15:19:25] ramsey:** we’re talking millions, baby.

Her previous thoughts are immediately abandoned.

_Millions._ She can deal with Ramsey for that, ‘baby’ aside.

She agrees to meet with him tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

Three days after the crash, Gavin needs a job. Bad. 

He’s out of a car, out of money, and out of food. All he has left is his street cred. Which is, admittedly, meager, but it should get him something.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

He has one place left. One shot in the dark, really. Every criminal he’s met has all gone through one place- Ramsey’s. Geoff Ramsey’s. The infamous king of Los Santos.

The address he’s got- reliable, considering it came from the Vagos’ intel guy Sorola himself- is for some fancy apartment downtown near Legion Square, apparently. It doesn’t seem like the headquarters for a crime boss, but he’s seen odder things. 

He walks- carless, remember?- downtown from the motel room in Murrieta Heights he didn’t pay for, and finds the place no problem. 

Trouble is, there’s gunshots down the road.

Trouble is, he’s curious. Sue him.

 

* * *

Three days after he comes back from the dead, Ryan goes out to buy a potted plant for his hideout and finds himself in the middle of a gang war.

Typical.

It’s Vagos versus Hellbenders, he’s guessing, and when he comes out of the florists’, one tiny cactus in hand, there’s a firefight blocking the road. 

He shouldn’t be so surprised, really. It’s Los Santos. Of course there is.

He sets the pot down on the sidewalk and pulls out a pistol from inside his recently-dry-cleaned jacket, lamenting that it’ll probably get dirtied up again real soon. It isn’t very nice of them to ruin his shopping day like that, is it? 

Also, he wants revenge on the crew that sent the hitman- he’s not sure which one it actually is, but then again, it doesn’t matter. All the gangs are guilty of something.

So it’s a very good thing he brought his mask.

 

* * *

Three days after Geoff decides to get a crew together, there are explosions outside his apartment. Again.

He looks out the window and groans, sipping at a glass of brandy. Vagos. Hellbenders. What a fucking mess. He wonders briefly why they always decide to bring their drama to him. He’s not a fucking marriage counselor. It’s not _his_ fault their territories clash.

He remembers he was supposed to be meeting that kid Michael’s sniper friend today. _Shit. The traffic will be awful._

But something much more worrying is happening below him. Down on the street, both gangs have.. stopped. Everyone, gang aside, has dropped their weapons. 

“CEASE YOUR FIRE!”

And then he sees him. Mask and all. 

He drops his glass.

_Vagabond._

 

* * *

 

The day he’s supposed to be meeting the most dangerous man in the city, Ray is stuck in traffic one block down the road from Ramsey’s apartment.

The car inches forward and he is inching towards giving up on all of this. The midday heat is seeping through the windows and the seats and the driver’s musty breath. 

Michael, next to him in the taxi, mimes putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger. Ray sucks down the lump in his throat and manages a grimace in reply. 

Maybe the crew will actually give him a purpose.

And then, an explosion rocks the street. There are cracks in the windows and Ray’s hand twitches towards his knife. His mind is racing with possibilities and he needs to run like a scared fucking rabbit-

And he sees a man with a Hellbender sigil on his shirt running past them on the street.

They look at each other. One beat. Two beats. Three beats. Michael has his gun out. Ray’s only got a butterfly knife but it’s definitely enough because all that fills them is the desperate, all-consuming need for _revenge-_

They tear out of the taxi and prepare to wreak their own special brand of havoc.

It’s been a while since they’ve worked together, but they’ve known each other so long, it doesn’t really matter. They move fluid, they move quick and they move dirty and Ray’s already taken out two Hellbenders by the time they reach the sidewalk. 

They move like they never split apart.

 

* * *

The day after Geoff texts her, Jack is thrown headfirst into something much larger than herself.

Of course, it’s all _his_ fault.

Because she’s biking to _his_ house and there just happens to be some sort of _gang war_ outside _,_ how _typical_ of him. She stops, far enough back to stay out of it, and slips the pistol out of her jean jacket pocket.

From what she can tell, it’s the Vagos and the Hellbenders, and _of course it is_ , they’ve been locked in a territory war for the past few months, and _of course_ they’re fighting in the middle of the road right outside Geoff’s place because _this is Los Santos_ , and what else did she expect?

She decides to watch, for the time being. She’s never really been in a gang or a crew, always done her own thing, helping out just about everyone with intel, and picking a side’s never helped anybody.

From the fight, she can see that the Vagos are losing. They’ve got less men, and they’re not trained for this kind of fight- in the open, away from their coke kingdoms. The Hellbenders have always been brutal, and it shows in how they move- calculated, dense, a modern Roman legion. 

But she can see more than the two gangs. Coming from down the road are two- well, they look like teenagers, but with weapons and dark, dark eyes, flying through the crowd. One’s got a gun and the other’s got a knife and they are both just as deadly- but they’re only attacking Hellbenders. Curious.

And on the other side of the road is- no. 

No _way_. 

It _can’t_ be the Vagabond. Mask and everything, just as tall and broad and terrifying as all the stories always say. It’s the legend come to life.

He’s got a handgun, as well, but he’s not even using it, he’s just.. standing there. Waiting.

“CEASE YOUR FIRE,” somebody screams, and they do.

Then he takes one step forward and the fight is thrust back immediately into action and everyone is shouting and Jack can hear police sirens ( _too far, too far_ ) then all of a sudden there’s a bifta in the mix, a fucking _bifta,_ holy _shit,_ and everything is turning to chaos and someone’s got a rocket launcher and gang members are dissipating and there’s a lanky guy in fake sunglasses and ripped converse throwing something tiny and dark onto the asphalt-

And the world goes white.

 

* * *

 

It’s 3:18 pm in Los Santos, San Andreas, and they all meet in the middle of the road, surrounded by their own devastation. It wouldn’t be Los Santos otherwise.

There are five survivors, five criminals waking up from the aftermath of a sticky bomb to a crack in the ground to an underground gas pipe that ripped up the street.

They should be rubble.

But they stand, in the afternoon light, the dead illuminated. They’re in a rough circle, all shaking a little, all without a scratch.

Ray is sort of scared, mostly of the Vagabond, but also of the rest. There’s power surging here.

Michael’s still feeling the thrill of the fight racing like caffeine through his veins, but he just burns to know the hows and the whys of all of this.

Gavin is extraordinarily confused- and though that’s pretty much how his life goes, this time it’s really, properly weird. None of the faces surrounding him are familiar, but there is a draw inside of him. Something is pulling them together.

Ryan’s got his hands on his weapons, but somehow he knows he won’t shoot them. Also, it seems like they’re all immortal anyway- he has no idea how he’s accepting it so readily, but he’s got eyes. So it happened, and they’re not dead, and they are connected through these impossibilities.

Jack’s just happy to be alive.

“So, how the fuck did we survive that?” Michael asks into the deafening silence, though he already knows the answer.

Ray shoves him, much more interested in the man with the skull for a face. “More importantly- _are you the fucking Vagabond holy shit please don’t kill us also can i get your autograph?_ ”

Ryan takes off his mask, the plastic beginning to melt from the heat under his fingertips. “Uh.”

“Also, you’re kind of hot under the mask,” Ray blurts out. 

There’s a pause, and Gavin feels so unbelievably confused about the entire situation that he starts to laugh, hysterically, only a tiny bit terrified. The others only look at him strangely.

And for once, the Vagabond loses his daunting composure and laughs, too, something cracked and deep and unfamiliar. It’s probably the first time he’s laughed in months. 

“But really. I’m Brownman. What’s your number, baby? Is that a weapon of mass destruction in your pocket or are you just happy to-”

“Shut the fuck _up_ , Ray,” Michael groans. “Sorry about him. He doesn’t get out much.” 

They hear footsteps clacking on the sizzling ground, and swivel around to see a man in a dusty tuxedo saunter down from the apartment building with the front doors shattered. 

“That was dramatic,” Geoff Ramsey sighs, bending down to crumble asphalt dust between his fingers. “Y’all are helping me pay for this.”

“ _You’re Ramsey,_ ” Gavin gasps, fiddling with his collar. “You’re the whole reason I’m bloody here.”

“Same,” echo Michael and Ray and Jack, and they all stare at each other, surprised. Ryan furrows his brow, then drops his arms in aggravation.

“Aw, I left my cactus down the road.”

It’s such a strange statement for such a scary man to say with a completely straight face that Michael bursts into a fit of giggles. Geoff just raises his eyebrows. “So, _you’re_ the famous Vagabond.”

“Um, my name’s actually Ryan,” he says, flashing a bright boy-next-door smile. “I’ve been avoiding you for a while.”

“I sent a hitman after you.”

Ryan tilts his head like a puppy. “Did you, now?” He gestures to his torso. “Does it look like he succeeded?”

“Well. Speaking of.” Geoff clears his throat. “Immortality, huh?”

They are all struck by it. 

Because, well, now they think about it, it’s the only explanation for what’s happening to them.

Well, Gavin doesn’t think it. “Bah, that’s bloody ridicu-”

Geoff shoots him point blank in the face without a pause.

Thirty seconds of awkward waiting around later, Gavin pushes himself back up off the ground, dusting off his shirt. 

“ _Okay_ , _fine_ , you’re right, we’re all _immortal_ , no need to be a stupid pissin’ _git_ about it or anything.”

Michael’s still reeling. “Well, that’s fucking that.”

“Guns don’t kill people. It is literally impossible to be killed. We’re impervious to bullets and it’s a fuckin’ miracle,” mutters Ray under his breath, all a bundle of sarcasm and thinly-veiled wonder.

Geoff laughs. 

Because they are the Fake AH Crew and they don’t even know it, they don’t know the half of it, and they are the immortal six and they are so fucking incredible and they don’t even know each other’s names yet-

Soon, it will all be different. 

Soon, they will memorize each other’s coffee orders and breakfast preferences and phone numbers and worst secrets, soon they will have movie nights and game nights and motherfucking bank heists, soon they will be the _Fake AH Crew_ , and soon they will be the most beautiful, ragtag, reckless, morally suspicious group of codependent criminals Los Santos has ever seen because _goddammit_ , they are the Fake AH Crew and they can’t be stopped and they can’t be killed and _they can never die_.

It’s 3:18 pm in Los Santos, San Andreas, and six criminals have become one crew. It’s 3:18 pm in Los Santos, San Andreas, and the dead are drinking whiskey and cleaning their weapons, and the dead are singing along to ABBA and the dead are watching netflix and the dead are back to haunt you.

It’s 3:18 pm in Los Santos, San Andreas, and the Fake AH Crew is only just beginning to understand.

**Author's Note:**

> behold: the longest one-shot i have ever written. you're welcome, internet.  
> comments (and crit) appreciated!! this is the first gta thing i've written so uh might be bad idk  
> as always, self-promotion: you can find me on tumblr at lindsqyjones and twitter at @saltwaterrayne !!  
> heart you! <3  
> -E


End file.
